They Thirst

by Robert R. McCammon

  Garnette’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”

  “We have different beliefs about…life and death, about things that you would consider material for movies or bad paperback books. We think that not all is explicable by the law of God because the Devil has laws of his own.”

  “You talking about spirits? Ghosts? You mean you wanted Hollywood Division to stake out some ghosts?” Garnette almost laughed but didn’t because the other man’s face was so deadly serious. “Come on, is this a joke? What have you got, Halloween fever?”

  “No, I’m not talking about spirits,” Palatazin said. “And it is not a joke either. Fever, perhaps, but my fever is called fear, and it’s beginning to burn me up inside.”

  “Andy…” Garnette said quietly. “You can’t really be serious…are you?”

  “I have work to do now. Thank you for listening.” And before Garnette could stop him, Palatazin had gone through the doors into the squad room. Garnette stood in the corridor for a moment, scratching his head. What was wrong with that crazy old Hungarian? he thought. Now he’s going to have us running around after spooks in cemeteries? Jesus! A darker thought stirred sluggishly in his brain, Is the pressure making Andy unfit for duty? God, he thought. I hope I don’t have to…do anything drastic.

  And then he turned away from the doors and made his way to his own office further down the corridor.

  FOUR

  The intercom on Paige LaSanda’s desk crackled to life, “Miss LaSanda, there’s a Phillip Falco here to see you.”

  Paige, a stunning, ash-blond woman in her early forties, looked up from a report on a piece of industrial property she was interested in purchasing on Slauson Avenue and pressed the Speak button. “He doesn’t have an appointment does he, Carol?”

  There were a few seconds of silence. Then, “No, ma’am. But he says it concerns money owed to you.”

  “Mr. Falco can make his payments to you, dear.” She returned to the report. The property looked promising; it was underdeveloped and could support a larger factory than the one now on it, but the asking price might be a bit too…

  “Miss LaSanda?” the intercom voice said. “Mr. Falco wants to see you personally.”

  “When and who is my next appointment?”

  “Eleven-thirty. Mr. Doheny from the Crocker Bank.”

  Paige glanced at her diamond-studded Tiffany wrist-watch. Five after eleven. “All right,” she said, “send Mr. Falco in.”

  After another moment the door opened, and Carol ushered Falco—a gaunt man with long white hair and deep-set eyes—into the office. For a few seconds Falco stood at the center of the huge room, seemingly awed by its sumptuous furnishings, though he’d been to this office twice before. Behind her glass-topped, mahogany desk Paige said, “Please sit down, Mr. Falco,” and motioned toward a brown leather chair.

  Falco nodded and took his seat. In his rumpled, brown, pin-striped suit, he looked like little more than a cadaver, his flesh pale to the shade of gray, his wrists jutting from the coat sleeves. On a table beside him a burst of bright red roses made him look duller still. His eyes were never at rest; they moved across Paige’s desk, across her face, the broad picture window that looked out over Wilshire Boulevard, to his own hands in his lap, back to her desk, and then to her face again.

  Paige held up a carved, Dunhill cigarette case of lustrous black wood, and Falco took three cigarettes without apology, putting two in the breast pocket of his coat and lighting the third from the lighter flame Paige offered. “Thank you,” he said softly and leaned back in his chair, smoke dribbling from his nostrils. “These are European cigarettes, are they not?”

  “Balkan tobacco,” Paige said.

  “One can tell immediately. American brands are so dry and tasteless. These remind me so much of a brand sold in Budapest…”

  “Mr. Falco, I presume you’ve brought me a check today?”

  “What? Oh, of course. The check.” He rummaged in an inside coat pocket and brought out a sealed and folded envelope. This he slid across the desk to Paige, who instantly used a twenty-four-carat-gold letter opener on it. The check was written against a Swiss bank account and signed by a smooth, graceful hand—Conrad Vulkan.

  “That’s fine,” she said, eyeing the amount with mental glee. “How long should this take to clear?”

  “A week at most,” he answered. “Prince Vulkan plans to transfer a large amount to a local bank shortly. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “I suppose the Crocker Bank’s the most convenient. One of their vice-presidents is coming in at eleven-thirty. You might speak to him about it.”

  “There’s something else in the envelope, Miss LaSanda,” Falco said.

  “Oh?” She opened it wider and turned it upside down. A small white card fell out; it was engraved with the words Requesting The Pleasure Of Your Company—Prince Conrad Vulkan. “What’s this?”

  “As it says. I’ve been instructed to invite you to dine with Prince Vulkan at eight o’clock tomorrow evening if that’s convenient for you.”

  “Where?”

  “Why, the castle, of course.”

  “The castle? Then I take it you’ve somehow convinced the power company to repair the lines running up there? That’s more than I could ever do.”

  “No.” Falco smiled slightly, but it was a smile of the mouth; the eyes remained vacant and faintly troubled. “We have no power yet.”

  “What’s your prince going to do then, have something catered? I’m afraid I’m going to have to say—”

  “Prince Vulkan is very interested in meeting you,” Falco said softly. “He assumed the reverse would be true as well.”

  Paige regarded the man for a moment—sad-looking guy, she thought, doesn’t he ever see the sun?—and then lit a cigarette of her own, placing it in a long black holder with a gold band. “I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Falco,” she said finally. “When you came to me in September, wanting to rent these pieces of property, telling me you represented Hungarian royalty, I was highly skeptical. Before the deal was signed, I made a few transatlantic telephone calls. I could find no one in the present Hungarian government who knew anything about a Prince Vulkan. So I was ready to pull out, until you made your first payment in cash. I may not trust very many people, but I do trust the dollar, Mr. Falco. My last husband left me with that philosophy. Yes, I am interested in meeting your Prince Vulkan…if indeed he is a prince.”

  “He is. Most definitely.”

  “Of a country that doesn’t even recognize his existence? I don’t think I’d be out of line if I asked where he gets his funds from, do you?”

  “Family money,” Falco said. “He’s currently involved in selling some pieces from his very old and valuable art collection.”

  “I see.” Paige ran a fingernail over the raised lettering on the invitation. She recalled what a Hungarian official had told her during the last of her overseas calls, “Miss LaSanda, we have found a Conrad Vulkan mentioned in a fragment of Magyar history dated around 1342, but that would hardly be the gentlemen you’re seeking. This Prince Vulkan was the last of a long line of pretenders to the throne of the northern provinces. His carriage went off a mountain road when he was just seventeen, and it was assumed that wolves ate his body. As for someone passing himself off as Hungarian royalty, that’s a different story indeed. We would hate for the name of our government to be involved in any…shall we say, unsavory practices?”

  “For a man of royal tastes,” Paige said to Falco, “this Prince Vulkan doesn’t seem to care very much about his living conditions, does he?”

  “The castle suits him perfectly,” Falco replied, crushing out his cigarette in an onyx ashtray at his side. “He lives now approximately the same way he lived in Hungary. He needs no luxuries, no conveniences of a modern world. He’s never used a telephone and never plans to. For light there are always candles, aren’t there?”

  “And he uses the fireplaces for heat?”

  “That’s right.”r />
  “Well, I’ve sold and rented both houses and commercial property to all kinds of people, but I’ll have to say that your Prince Vulkan is quite a unique individual.” She drew on her cigarette and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “I bought that old place for a song. At the time the Hilton people were thinking about converting it into a hotel, but the plans fell through for one reason or another…”

  “The castle is built on unstable rock,” Falco said quietly. “Prince Vulkan has told me he can feel the walls vibrate from time to time.”

  “Oh, really?” Paige’s cheeks reddened a bit; of course, she’d already known that fact from the Hilton surveyors. “Well, it’s stood for over forty years, and I’m confident it’ll stand for another forty. At least.” She cleared her throat and felt the old man’s stare fixed to her. “But Prince Vulkan isn’t involved in local commerce, is he?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you want those warehouses? Of course, it’s none of my business. As long as he pays the rent, I don’t care what he stores in there, but…”

  Falco nodded. “I understand your curiosity, and so does Prince Vulkan. I would therefore suggest that you accept his invitation. All will be explained.”

  “I’ve never met a prince before,” Paige said thoughtfully. “A couple of sheikhs and some rock stars, yes, but not a prince. Or an ex-prince either for that matter. How old is he?”

  “Old enough to be wise, young enough to have ambitions.”

  “Interesting. Eight o’clock?” She picked up the card again and looked at it, then looked at the signature on the check. “I have a previous engagement for tomorrow night, but I suppose I could break it this once. Well, what the hell? I’ve never had dinner in a drafty old castle before. Tell him I’d be honored to have dinner with him.”

  “Very good.” Falco rose to his feet and moved unsteadily toward the door. He put his hand on the knob and paused, standing still for a few seconds.

  “Anything else?” Paige asked.

  Falco’s spine seemed to stiffen. Very slowly he turned to face her, and now his eyes had retreated so far back in his creased, weary face that they seemed no more than small black circles somewhere at the brain. “I’ve spoken for Prince Vulkan,” he said in a soft, tired voice. “Now I’ll speak for myself, and God help me. Turn down the invitation, Miss LaSanda. Keep your previous engagement. Do not come up that mountain to the castle.”

  “What?” Paige smiled uncertainly. “I’ve said I’ll come. There’s no need to twist the knife of suspense…”

  “I mean what I say.” He paused, staring straight at her so intensely Paige felt a chill run up her spine. “Now what reply shall I take to the prince?”

  “Uh…I’ll come. I guess.”

  Falco nodded. “I’ll tell him. Good day, Miss LaSanda.”

  “Good…uh…good day.”

  And then Falco had slipped through the door and was gone.

  “Now what in the name of Christ was that all about?” she asked herself. She held up the check—I hope this bastard’s good, she thought grimly—and looked at the signature, trying to envision the man through it. The lines were thin and elegant, and under the name there was a looped, intricate flourish that reminded her of the signatures on old faded, yellowed documents. Probably used a quill on this too, she thought, no Bics or Mark Cross for the prince. He would, of course, be dark, very tall, and a thin as a drawn rapier; he would be in his late forties or early fifties, and he probably had a list of ex-wives as long as Wilshire Boulevard. That’s probably why he came to the States—to get out of alimony payments. She wondered what to wear—her sensible gray business outfit? her sleek and sexy black dress? She decided to run over to Bonwit Teller during her lunch hour and check out the display windows.

  The intercom crackled. “Mr. Doheny is here, Miss LaSanda.”

  “Thank you, Carol. Send him right in.” She folded the check and, smiling dreamily, tucked it away in a drawer.

  FIVE

  A blood red Chrysler Imperial with a foxtail tied to the radio antenna pulled smoothly to the curb of Machado Street in East L.A., three blocks from the Santos’s apartment building on Dos Terros. From the car a young black man wearing sunglasses and a pale blue suit emerged, at first glancing warily up and down the street and then swaggering toward an unpainted wooden bench a few feet away. He sat down to wait because he had just finished a deal up on Whittier and he was early.

  Across the street, lines of multicolored clothing hung between the dark, brick buildings. Occasionally someone passed by a window—a woman in a printed dress, a man in a stained undershirt, a child with thin shoulders—and stopped to stare out vacantly at the rest of the world. From other open windows the black man could hear tinny transistor radios, the rattle of pots and pans, the long wail of a child, voices raised in feverish anger. Sometimes jammed in between the tenements were ramshackle houses with sagging front porches, hulks of cars, or remnants of washing machines in rock-strewn front yards. It was just after noon, and the sun was merciless, beating down like a hammer on the dry, flat streets; it seemed that everything trembled at the point of ignition, ready to flare into fire with each tick of the clock. The black man turned his head, beads of sweat glittering on his cheeks, and stared across at a clapboard bar decorated with white-painted music notes. It was, not surprisingly, called El Musica Casino. At the corner of Machado there was a flat-roofed grocery store, its windows plastered with Spanish signs. A slat-ribbed dog sniffed around garbage cans, stopped to stare balefully at the black man, then scurried away down an alley.

  It was a neighborhood ripe for the dreams that Cicero sold.

  When he looked to his left again, he saw a man and woman approaching, holding hands like frightened children. The man, a walking skeleton with deep blue hollows beneath his eyes, wore faded brown trousers and a shirt with a green and brown floral pattern; the woman would have been quite attractive but for the acne scars on her cheeks and a feral look in her eyes. Her hair was dirty, and it hung limply around her shoulders, and she wore a bright blue shift that barely covered her swelling belly. Their combined ages would hardly have added up to much more than forty, but their faces carried ancient, desperate expressions.

  Cicero watched them coming, his teeth flaring white. He hooked a thumb back toward that alley, and the two figures hurriedly entered it. Cicero looked up and down the street again. Everything was cool, he thought. The cops never prowled around here. He got to his feet and took his sweet time in going back to the alley where they waited.

  “Gimme,” Cicero said when he reached the man.

  He gave Cicero a coffee-stained envelope, his hand trembling. Beside him the woman shivered; her teeth were chattering. Cicero tore open the envelope and counted the money very slowly, relishing the cold waves of need that washed in off the two bodies. Then he grunted, said “Lookin’ good,” and withdrew a small packet of white powder from an inside coat pocket. He dangled the packet before the man’s face and saw him bare his teeth like an animal. “Sweet dreams,” Cicero whispered. The man grabbed it with a soft moan and raced off along the alley with the woman shouting at his heels. Cicero watched them vanish around a corner and put the money in his pocket. Stupid shits, he thought. Fool didn’t even wait to check the horse. Junk’s cut so much they’ll barely get a buzz, and before nightfall they’ll be needin’ again. Well, they know where to find old Cicero…

  He laughed to himself, patted his pocket, and walked back along the alley toward the street.

  At the mouth of the alley, a hulking figure stepped into his path Cicero said “Wha—?” and that was all because in the next instant a hand had slammed into his shoulder, sending him flying back into the alley. Cicero collided with a brick wall and went down to his knees, all the breath squashed out of him. A hand with scarred knuckles grasped Cicero’s collar and wrenched him up until he was standing on the toes of his gray alligator skin boots. His sunglasses dangled from one ear, and his first coherent thought was Cop.


  The man who held him pinned against the wall was over six-four with wide shoulders that looked as solid as concrete. He was a Chicano, possibly in his mid-forties, dark complexion with fierce, black eyes under thick, gray-flecked brows. He wore a mustache, also flecked with gray, and there were swirls of gray at the temples in a head of hair so black it seemed to hold shimmers of blue. His eyes were narrowed into fierce slits above a craggy nose, and there was the faint, pinkish line of a scar running through his left eyebrow and up into the hairline. This man had a deadly look, and he was crowding Cicero too close for him to reach the ten-inch blade in his back pocket.

  Not a cop, Cicero thought. This fucker wants to rob my ass, maybe kill me, too!

  And then Cicero’s gaze dropped to the man’s throat. And the white collar he was wearing. A priest!

  Cicero almost laughed as relief surged through his body in waves. But when he began to smile, the priest slammed him back against the wall so hard his teeth clicked. “Come on, man,” Cicero said. “How’s about backin’ off, huh?”

  The priest stared at him coldly, keeping that hand clenched on Cicero’s shirt. “What kind of filth was in that packet?” he rumbled. “Heroin? Answer me before I break your neck, culebra!”

  Cicero snorted. “You ain’t gonna break no neck, Mr. Priest. That’s against your re-ligion.”

  With a sharp twist of his shoulder, the man flung Cicero to the ground. “Hey!” Cicero squawked. “You crazy or somethin’?”

  “How long have you been dealing heroin to Miguel and his wife?”

  “I don’t know no damned Miguel.”

  “Who else have you been selling to?”